Today I’m pretty astounded at the positive changes that have
taken place in my life over the past few years. I am so grateful to Sri Chinmoy for inspiring me to look ever deeper for the best in myself, to offer my best to others, and to see the best in them too. Happiness seems to come from the sources I least expected. I
suppose meditation teaches us to find it within ourselves, so a life of
outer simplicity gives room for inner happiness. I appreciate that more
every day. I’ve also grown to appreciate busyness; it keeps me out of
mischief, and some might say that takes some doing.
For anyone who doesn’t know me, I work at a branch of Run and Become
(a specialist running shop staffed by students of Sri Chinmoy). It’s
simple work, and it’s busy. One thing I really love about it is that I
never know who I’ll meet next. That’s something I don’t think I could
ever tire of.
The more people I meet, the more I realise they’re just like
me. A lot of the time they’re intimidated by coming into a specialist
shop, as if we’re going to say, “Hey I didn’t see you at the Olympics.”
If they look really scared or defensive, I tell them my weekly mileage
or my last marathon time. That usually at least cracks a smile.
Who will walk in next? A pinstriped politician, a judo
champion, a policewoman, a twenty-stone rugby player, a flat-nosed
boxer, a burly biker with a tiny beard and big tattoos, or someone
cooler than Greenland looking like a movie star? Who will usually be
most intimidated? Them, or me - the whippersnapper who’s asking them to
run outside by a public bus-stop with their trousers rolled up so I can
check out their gait? Right. Not me. I sometimes feel like timing
myself to see how quickly I can make a nervous or defensive person feel
at ease. That's something I enjoy.
I don’t have to go anywhere to learn. People come in one after
another to teach me something new, or to remind me of something I’d
forgotten. The screaming toddler beating an impassioned fist on the
floor reminds me of sincerity. The amputee teaches me courage. The man
with a kind of eager sadness in his eyes that really lonely people
have, reminds me of how I appreciate my friends. An angelic child walks
in and smiles with sparkling eyes, when my eyes have seen a
morning-full of muddy old running shoes and calloused feet. She reminds
me that beauty and purity still exist. The teenage sprinter reminds me
that confidence is a choice. I just met a man newly widowed. He’s
taking up running to help with the grief. The way he talked to his son,
even the way he looked at him, reminded me of the strength of love.
I like it when it’s so busy I can’t see the floor for
customers and their extended family members, assorted shoes and their
cardboard boxes, shopping bags, socks, and crouching members of staff.
I like it because I can only think about giving then, and not about
what’s in it for me. Sometimes there’s the deepest sense of peace in
that outer chaos. The customers do give me so much though. I feel their
enthusiasm and gratitude, even when I hear myself saying the same
things as I’ve said fifty times that week. To them it’s new, relevant,
fascinating, exciting even. That makes it new for me too.
There’s only so much busyness a person can take. We have a
favourite Indian diner down the road. You wouldn’t think it much to
look at, but the food is unbelievable. Hard work is satisfying. After
that I think there’s barely anything more satisfying than being around
people who know me inside out and back to front, eating fresh katchuri,
drinking too much chai tea because it’s just too delicious not to, and
laughing too loud because there’s nobody but us around. Then buying a
big, heavy boxful of far too many Indian sweets for Sunday Centre
meeting, because they’re just too beautiful to walk away from.
Then sitting by myself: meditating, singing, and just watching
the sky. Remembering how I fit into it all, and which aspects of me
matter most.
Sumangali Morhall
February 2005
